Perfection
by DarkMadameFaye
Summary: Double Trouble dallies with the perfect lover. Rated M for sex. This fic has sex in it.


**Here's my first attempt at non-binary erotica. I used first person to eliminate any awkwardness with pronouns and left things vague where I needed, since we don't know what's in Double Trouble's pants. Any insults or stuff weren't intentional and if any NB people come and want me to change anything I will. TBF I don't expect many NB people to read my Double Trouble fan fiction just by the odds.**

**Content warning: masturbation. That's it.**

* * *

The Horde didn't have much to vouch for them. Their architecture was a depressing sort of Bauhaus postmodernism. Their food made me wish I could photosynthesize. Their fashion was nonexistent and their theater program sorely lacking. If it wasn't for the people, I might have packed up entirely and taken my show back on the road.

Not that the people were interesting on their own. I'd never seen such a tepid, monochromatic bunch of bit players. What made them interesting was the sticks they all had up their backsides, sticks that were very entertaining to pull out and dangle in front of them. Okay, that metaphor didn't make the cut. Moving on.

My own quarters were unsurprisingly unacceptable. Luckily I'd brought my player's trunk with me. I'd made the most of the greige floor and white walls by decorating them with colorful silks and tapestries and all manner of gewgaws and baubles that had caught my eye over the years. And even without that, my room had a certain spark no other Horde bedchamber could claim. That, of course, was because my bedroom had me.

Me and my hot date, who I'd been wooing for years. I couldn't wait to get my hands on those slender arms and narrow hips and pointed ears and yellow eyes.

My date was me, of course. I was the most attractive person I'd ever met.

I was also a romantic and a difficult catch. First I had to take me out to dinner, where I enjoyed, as best I could, a ration bar. Then I went back to my place where I took a long, sensuous bath, luxuriating in the butterfly flower-scented salts and exfoliating oil I deserved. I ran my hands down my smooth legs and pointed my toes to show off their full length.

As I toweled off, I snuck a peek at myself. I yanked the towel back up in displeasure.

"Oh, you! Just you wait. There will be plenty of that later," I said to the mirror on my door.

I kept eye contact as I laid myself out on my back on my sheets. I bent up one leg as I dried off the last bits of bathwater.

"Isn't it really too early? I have my modesty," I said in one voice. I crossed my arms in front of my chest.

"Oh, there's nothing to hide," I said, rolling onto my stomach and crossing my legs at the ankles behind me. The light from my stained glass window hanger cast bewitching slivers of color across my back. "I'm ready for my closeup."

Some times I wore lacy gowns or leathery suits just to mix things up. They were fun, of course, but no character compared to the actual me. Most times, like this time, it was just all Double Trouble. No clothes needed.

I'm a born romantic. I started at my ear, my fingers gently stroking it all around. Then my hand, that devious thing, dipped down and traced my collarbone.

"Ohh," I cooed. "Yes. I'm ready. I want this."

My hand draped across my chest and slid down the skin of my torso. It hugged my waist and trailed out the tiny curve of my elfin hip. My breath deepened in the subtle indication of eroticism a lesser performer would have overlooked in favor of tawdry noises and carrying on. I bent my head sideways and revealed my slender neck.

My hand stopped at the crease between my stomach and my leg. That was such private territory. Such things must not be rushed.

"Do it. Do it. Oh, do it already!" I urged myself on. I wiggled my body in excited anticipation. I loved the sound of my sexy voice. I loved it when I begged. I put back my shoulders and arched my back toward that tantalizing hand.

Like a butterfly kissing a flower, my hand skimmed my hip and landed in that most intimate area, where a curtain would respectfully fall were this in front of an audience. I took in the offered treasure with the reverence it deserved. I so gently laid my fingers down and felt its heat under me. Mindful of my shivering shyness and impatience in equal measures, I stroked once.

"Faster," I advised myself. "Don't tease. I can't bear it." I quickened my pace and gradually grew more forceful, never pushing myself but easing into a pulsing rhythm. Oh, this was my second-favorite part. The buildup can make all the difference.

"You're so gorgeous," I said. "So perfectly gorgeous. Everything about you is flawless."

_Not yet_, I pulled back as I got too close. Draw it out. Use every second. Not every play is in one act. The story must develop and the characters must come together. And they were coming together. I was tingling all over, filling up with the wondrous rapture that comes from a performance well executed. I tamped down my impatience and reminded myself that however good it felt, a premature ending favored no one.

I was right to rein myself in. As I moved, showering the deepest love and desire on myself, the pleasure moved past what would have been its crest and swelled into something that barely left room for my craft. My voice slid up into that thin, reedy neediness that made my knees weak.

"Now. Now. _Now_!"

All plays build toward their climaxes. The moment crystallized and my smile went from ear to ear as exhileration rushed through me. I was the best there was! I could make me feel things that curled my toes! I was putty in my hands. I was a squealing, quaking, gasping mess. It was a performance so perfect it brought tears to my eyes.

_And... scene._


End file.
